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“Just because she did a Google search for Creighton?”
“Whydid she search for him, and did she find him? Is that why she ended up dead?”
Thibodeau gave a grim laugh. “Death by Google. That’s a new one.”
They sat in silence for a moment, all three of them mulling the question. Across the dining room, the couple kept staring at their smartphones, oblivious to the detectives’ conversation and to each other. The café door swung open and two women ducked in from the storm, shaking off raindrops from their jackets. The barista cheerily greeted them both by name. In this town where all the locals seemed to know one another, murder must seem like the work of outsiders.
Until it isn’t.
“What about other suspects?” Jane said.
“There was a student who’d threatened Professor Creighton when she flunked him. There was a drunk guy who lived up the road from her. Neither one panned out.”
“You have the list of those students who attended Professor Creighton’s reception the week before?”
“It’s in those files I gave you. Some of the students had alibis for the night of the murder. Some of them didn’t.”
“And the work crew who renovated her kitchen?” asked Frost.
“Three guys. Their names are in that folder too. They knew how to access the house and their fingerprints were on the outside door and all over the kitchen. They would’ve seen the little girl while they were doing the renovations, so naturally Tremblay talked to them.”
Jane flipped through the file to the interviews with the work crew.Scott Constantine. Bruce Flagler. Byron Barber.Yet more names to add to their ever-growing list of possible suspects. “Any of these guys have criminal records?”
“Just minor stuff. Drunk driving, domestic abuse. But all three men claimed to be at home on the night of the murder, and their wives or girlfriends vouched for them. Two of them have moved out of state and I have no idea where they are. Byron Barber’s still in town, still building kitchens.”
Jane turned to a photo of Eloise and Lily Creighton, mother and daughter beaming at the camera from beneath a spreading oak tree. Both of them were pale and flaxen-haired and they wore matching summer dresses with pink sashes. It hurt to see how happy they looked together. Jane thought of her own daughter, Regina, and the Easter photo they’d taken together. They had not been wearing pretty spring dresses, because Regina was an overalls kind of four-year-old, but like the Creightons, they had also posed under a tree and worn the same happy smiles. Jane flipped over the picture and saw it was taken June fifteenth.
Four months later, Eloise Creighton would be dead.
“You can see why this case haunted me,” said Thibodeau. “Those faces. Those smiles. I kept thinking about my own daughter.”
“So would I,” said Jane softly.
Thibodeau looked at his watch. “Sorry to take off, but I’ve got a meeting. Most of what you need should be right there in those files, and I’ll email you whatever else I have. If you crack your case, call me. I’m curious as hell what connects these murders.” He stood up. “If there’s any connection at all.”
